


to the fitfully, cryptically true

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bilingual Character(s), Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Language, Established Relationship, F/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Struggling Bilingual Cullen, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen’s feet sting and ache, but it’s easy to ignore when she peers up at him with a calm he has never seen within high stone walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the fitfully, cryptically true

**Author's Note:**

> For the sweet tumblr anon who wanted Cullen/Lavellan with the prompt "what we do in the dark" .

The tenth pinecone digs into the arch of his foot in as many minutes, and Cullen hisses, scraping it off on the ground as he stumbles through the fir needles. He hears her pause again from ahead, and takes the respite to brace one arm against a tree and flex his toes. 

 

He knows what she’s going to say before she can say it, just as he knows she can see his face even in the dead of night, so he scowls when she does. 

 

 

“You can wear your boots.”

 

“I’m not wearing the boots,” he says, wiping bark residue off on his tunic as he goes to meet her. “This is your custom. I told you I’d follow it to the letter. And besides,” he mutters at her side, “you manage without them well enough.”

 

“I’ve spent my entire life without shoes,” she reminds him. It’s a comfortable night, but still she draws his cloak tighter around his shoulders, one-handed. His frustrations melt as he catches her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles. “Until the Inquisition.”

 

“And I’ve spent my entire life _with_ them, until you. We all must make adjustments now and then.”

 

She makes an indelicate noise and slips out of his grasp. “If your adjustment keeps you from walking after this, I won't carry you back. It’s per your stubbornness, not my will. You will have to crawl back on hands and knees.”

 

“Bloody-mindedness, bloody feet.”   
  


 

“And they say you have no sense of humor.”

 

He laughs, a breathy noise in the quiet of the forest, redoubling his efforts to keep at her side. Her eyes glow in the dark, and it makes for a fine beacon. “Who says that?”

 

The smile in her words is an audible thing. “Who doesn’t?”

 

There are at least three more pine cones and a hundred tiny stabbing needles before she finally stops him. What she knows now of her creators and what they truly were seems to matter little in comparison to what she has always believed, no matter what practicalities she tells herself. Cullen can hear the prayer she murmurs under her breath before she leads him further by the hand.

 

In the dark, he cannot see what makes her stop and turn to face him, until she lifts her hand. Magelight glows, bathing everything in silvery blue - the trees, the tall grass, the crumbling stone statue in a vague shape he cannot place, and the flower-strewn altar. Cullen’s feet sting and ache, but it’s easy to ignore when she peers up at him with a calm he has never seen within high stone walls. 

 

“Sylaise,” she says, nodding toward the statue. Cullen feels suddenly, inexplicably glad for his bare feet; to tread on this sacred ground with the heavy boots and burden of a human world would feel akin to desecration. 

 

From his pack he takes the offerings - a bundle of rope, wound and knotted by their own hands, and a pair of tall candles. She lights one with her will after invoking the goddess, and Cullen uses flint. A calm breeze stirs the flames but does not otherwise disturb them, and beside him she breathes easy.

 

He takes her hand again in his and presses a kiss to the backs of her fingers. He’s ready for this; he’s been practicing.

 

“Would you like to start?” he asks, hushed in the quiet stillness of the moment, and her serious face grows light. Cullen presses her hand to his heart beneath the cloak. 

 

“Sylaise enaste var aravel,” she says, and the words are burned into his mind from that evening in Halamshiral, perhaps the happiest of his life. He knows she can feel his heart racing under her palm. Her voice is so soft, so perfectly sweet in the whispering woods, the command of it dampened to make way for reverence. Cullen knows how she feels. “Lama, ara las mir lath. Ballanaris. La ne.”

 

He clutches at her hand, eager to prove himself, eager to succeed. Digging his toes into the earth, Cullen meets her eyes and repeats the vow, shoving his self-consciousness to the back of his mind. The imitation of her accent can hardly be perfect, but she doesn’t laugh. Not at him. And when he finishes, he presses his forehead to hers. “Emma lath,” he breathes, and feels hers hitch. 

 

“Emma lath,” she agrees, “ma vhenan.”

  
He wouldn’t know his way home without her, he thinks. He never will again.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from Fiona Apple's "Red Red Red": _There's solace a bit for submitting to the fitfully cryptically true. What's happened has happened. What's coming is already on its way with a role for me to play._
> 
>  
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
